


The End Is In The Beginning And Yet You Go On

by whisksandplungers



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2181183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisksandplungers/pseuds/whisksandplungers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know that I shall meet my fate,<br/>Somewhere among the clouds above</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my (horribly late, scorn me forever) entry for the saveintheflesh challenge! My prompt was "It’s fate. Everything happens for a reason. You’re got to start believing that."  
> The title is a quote from Samuel Beckett, stolen from the In The Flesh scripts page.

Amy looked up at the vacuous, white ceiling. She could feel the gentle press of her Nan’s hand on her own, feel the slight dampness on her skin from her tears. She wanted to turn her head, to smile at her Nan and thank her for everything she had done. But she just couldn’t. Her head felt nailed to the pillow. Her eyes slid shut and she found her thoughts grew slow. This was it, then.

After all that effort, all those cures, all that money that her Nan had given up for her and this is what it had come down to; a bed that wasn’t hers in a room she didn’t know with people who only cared just enough.

 The world simplified: the pressure of the hard bed against her back, the assault of the smell of latex and bleach, the insistent press of the stark white lights on her eyelids, the steady pulse of the metallic beeping. Though these last moments were a laughable shadow of the world she knew, by god she didn’t want to go. But it was too late now to reminisce over the sensations of the world, and besides, she was struggling to conjure up the images and memories. Everything was fading, but the world reached out one tentative tendril of sensation; she felt her Nan stroke the back of her hand. This was her last go at life, so she summoned every ounce of energy to gently try and squeeze her Nan’s hand.

It was so unfair.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

An infinity of nothing. A darkness so complete that it is matched only by Kieren’s mind. An instinctive hand moves to the side, but is stopped. He tries the other hand; stopped again. A vague notion breezes through his mind that he’s been buried alive. He starts hitting pushing scraping scratching. Wherever he is, he knows it’s not where he wants to be.

He keeps hitting and the impossible surface above him starts to give. He has no idea long he will have to keep going to reach... what was he trying to reach? He has no idea, he just knows he has to reach it.

An infinity of scraping and pushing. His skin is abused with a soft heaviness that holds him in this inescapable nothingness.

Then the nothingness ends. The tips of his fingers break free into what must be outside, away from this endless compression. The silky, intangible outside starts whipping past his fingers, joined by a heavier caress falling down his fingers. He realised he was underground, the heavy fullness suspending him. He pushes up, now knowing there is an end to this. The storm crashes into his senses, measured by the leaden rings of the church bell.

He sits up, his mind misty and slow. His mind has been simplified, now knowing only one thing; a ceaseless ravaging hunger tying his thoughts down with chains.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

A name was battering the barrier of reality. A stark white lapel crept into Kieren’s awareness and he heard “It’s alright” infused with a clinical kindness. The satisfactory hard lines of vacuous whites and greens pressed upon Kieren’s mind as the treatment centre reasserted itself on him. He leant back against the solid, real chair to be certain, but now he remembered; another flashback.

“They’re getting more vivid,” he said, his voice shaking. His eyes slid to Doctor Shepherd’s notebook as his horror was carefully noted down as a minor pothole on the road of ‘treatment’. As if he could ever be treated. In terms of whatever the hell this was, there was no doubt that he had a disease that needed to be cured. But who cared for the prognosis considering...

“Maybe it means I’m not ready,” he pushed, with more confidence than he felt. He never felt confident anymore, in anything, so how could he ever be ready? And what was there to be ready for, when it was impossible to ‘go back’ when everything had changed?

 “It means your brain’s responding. Repairing,” Doctor Shepherd comforted matter-of-factly.

Repairing? How could this gash in his soul ever be repaired? He remembered little of what he had done, but he knew enough to know that he was a bulbous, blackened beast.

And Doctor Shepherd wanted him to return to the world that must hate him. He wanted Kieren to leave the sanctity of walls that were reinforced by tough men with guns. And Doctor Shepherd wanted his family to take back

“- a zombie. I killed people.”

But no no no he was a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer and this evil inside of him was to be labelled and ignored.

He left the rare and comforting isolation of Doctor Shepherd’s room and walked past the thousands of others like him. The girl’s face washed over his eyes again, and the guilt clung to his lungs and tried to drag him down to the hell he deserved to be in. He would do anything to change what he had done. Why were they here? Each day they dressed in ironically white and clean clothes that erased who they were. Each day they were injected with the awareness of what they had done; their own personal hells. He did not know why he had risen, for now all he knew was that he was evil.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

There are sounds; direct, purposeful, smooth sounds, impossibly nuanced. They are voices. That is the first thing Simon is aware of. Snatches of the world; words and distant, incongruous metronomes. Glimpses of a dripping distorted line, of hard surfaces and sharp cuts across the air, and of people. They are the ones making the words. He remembers that he can...

“Where...”

The harsh beige became bigger. A face. Simon heard the men talking. He can do that too. He scratched at the back of his head to find the question, to find the meanings, to find their sounds, to find the connection to his tongue.

“Where... am... I?”

Each word was a claw to his throat and yet he wasn’t sure if he would know the answer. He was struggling to keep his head up. It had done it before but now it needed his attention; how did he give it? He could barely feel his body, was it there?

“ ˈdʒɑːn... ˈdʒɑːn, ˈdɪd ju ˈhɪr ðæt ?”

Had he asked the question, spoken aloud? Simon wasn’t sure. The other face came closer. He could see clearer and clearer. He could see the intent eyes framed with a weak and worn cage.

“kən ju ˈhɪr ˈmi?”

The sounds invaded Simon’s ear. Then slowly, like iron filings rushing to meet the magnet, they began to form words, and those words had a meaning. Then suddenly, the sentence replayed in his head and he felt as if he had known all along.

“Yes... where am I?” he asked, the words tearing themselves slowly out of his throat like a child who’s afraid to take the plaster off.

The faces twisted to face each other, the mouths broadening.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Simon stared back at the ghostly circles. At the ghostly skin. That’s all he was now, a ghost. He had died and come back and for what? He was dead at every layer. He had never had a purpose, for he was born with the dead, but was this his fate? To be here now, staring back at what was supposed to be his face, when he had tried so hard to leave? The world had made his own little hell by forcing him back. So, as his revenge, he had killed. But of course this sempiternal hell now enlightened him to his fate; to see that he was horrific, that he wasn’t human.

But suddenly, John lit him a candle.

“Allow us to continue experimenting on you.”

The candle’s light reached out through this tenebrous hell and lit him a little of what could be - He could stop the war, he could be cured of this abomination, he could help others. For once in his life he could inflict on the world something other than disappointment. John’s candle waited in front of him, waiting to start the conflagration that would burn away the darkness.

 “Okay.”

Perhaps this was his ironic fate; to stop the very thing that had finally shown him his purpose.


	2. Chapter 2

Amy reached around to pick up her laptop, but found her head jerked back. Gary’s hand screwed itself into her hair, and he pulled so hard she could feel the pressure on her scalp, though not the pain. Her hand shot up to scratch his hand, trying to peel his fingers of her scalp. But he was strong, and she found herself kneeling, futilely trying to push herself up. Her mind raced as she tried to work out what he wanted to do, fear choking her chest.

Amy saw Gary reach for the makeup as he restrained her with his other hand. She tried to cry out as he started smothering her lipstick across her mouth.

“In this village, you cover up your own face,” he growled.

Amy clawed at his hands, trying to jerk out of his grip.

“Got it?” He reached out for more makeup and she pushed up hard again, but his iron hand still kept her down. He grabbed something else, powdery, she couldn’t see, and started rubbing it across her forehead. But she wouldn’t let this arsehole get away with this, she carried on fighting. Gary threw her to the floor, but before she could make a move he grabbed her shoulder and dragged her back up.

“Better,” he said, admiring his handy work before striding out the door.

Amy slowly kneeled up to look in the mirror. Better, he had said. Her reflection looked like an alcoholic prostitute; hopeless and so full of self-loathing that they would do anything to their face to cover the truth. And that’s what Gary, what Roarton wanted; anything rather than the truth.

She believed that fate had given her a second chance at life, but none of that mattered to Roarton. They didn’t believe that this was a gift. They believed that she was evil. There was no way of censoring it – to them she was the devil incarnate and she always would be.

But the Undead Prophet – he didn’t think that.

“ _I am the first and the last, I am he that liveth, and was dead, and behold I am alive for evermore and hold the keys of life and death_ ”

And he was right. They, the undead, even Amy held the key to a new life, with which she could do anything she wanted. How could she deny who she was, when who she was had given her such a new hope? She would not pretend, she would not cover up, not for Roarton and certainly not for Gary.

She wanted to stay here, of course she did, Roarton had been her whole life. But it had been her whole first life; this was her second life, and now it was time to find a new way. She would join the ULA, and she would find her new fate.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

“We’re better than that, we’re free.”

Simon scoffed at the proclamation from a man who sat close to the wall by the necessity of his chains. If this was freedom he didn’t want it. Yes, before, he had been born with the dead so he had felt his life was a blackened page that just floated meaninglessly in front of him. And yes, now, his page was an endless scroll, but instead of being blackened by the end, it was blackened by this... No, this wasn’t the freedom he was after.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Simon pressed his back into the wall, trying to press himself into imperceptibility. He could not lift his head for the guillotine waited above. His father had had every right to run. He had thought he was horrific before. Now, he was the worst possible thing imaginable, and he couldn’t leave this time. Though perhaps he shouldn’t leave. Perhaps this is what he deserved. The devil had nothing on him.

John came into his hell and suddenly the candle was back again; smaller, weaker, flickering more readily at the possibility of worthlessness, but it was waiting for him. And Simon did not hesitate.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll do it,” he rasped, craning his head to meet John’s pitiful gaze. If his father would not take him back (why would he? How could the _world_ take him back? He didn’t want himself) then this could be his only purpose. John paused for a moment before giving an understanding nod. He instructed the guard to take away Simon’s chains, though Simon could feel their pull all the way to operating theatre.

The flat grey of the floor pressed itself into Simon’s vision as he yielded to John and Victor’s knives. _You are the first and the last_. The words rang through Simon’s mind, over and over, splitting and seeping through his neurons as their meaning danced just out of reach. The idea that the phrase ‘you are’ could be followed by anything but words of disgust was unfathomable. But some of Julian’s words did find the cracks in his mind. He knew all too well that the living could not grow in the small space of their lives. He was free from that. Maybe this was his second chance. His life had been a wasted breath before. He wanted to reach his father. He didn’t want this.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he croaked out. But Halperin and Weston’s silence reflected angrily back at him. “You hear me? I don’t want to do this anymore.” And suddenly he saw that their purpose dwarfed his own. He just wanted to be cured. “Please.”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

A flow of faces assaulted Simon’s quavering resolve. At first he wanted to run, to escape the possibility of love and care for he had forgotten how it was done. But he could not help reciprocate the sunshine smiles, the cursory smiles, the smiles of a hovering wild animal, unsure of their place; he could not help reciprocate for not a single one was reluctant. Julian gave him a hug so sudden his surprise tore itself from his mouth. Perhaps there was not affection, but an acceptance in the embrace so genuine his mind stilled as it struggled to understand this change of circumstances.

Simon did not love the God that Julian held so dear. And he did not hate the living for doing what they had all once done. But the Undead Prophet would show him that his now endless scroll was not blackened, but instead was white with potential.

Before, he could not care which route he took, for they were all living to the same end; they were born with the dead. But now, he was free from that end. And now the Undead Prophet had given him a purpose; to fight for their freedom, to show others their salvation, to give them something to believe in.

An end had meant that any purpose he might have had would always have had a limit. Now his purpose was infinite. He could continue to explore in this life until he knew this place for the first time.

The Undead Prophet had given him something to believe in. And Jesus had he needed that.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

“Rick’s back.”

Kieren’s mind refused to comprehend what he had heard. Jem struck a match for him:

“PDS sufferer... like you... the Legion...” Kieren’s mind latched itself to the few words that he needed.

A laugh threatened to bubble up at the pure fucking irony. But soon thoughts began to assault his mind incessantly. The evil that constantly scraped away at his heart started to melt. A glow hooked itself on to his lips and pulled them into an unacknowledged yet irresistible smile, cradling his heart and blinding his vision with hope. He could finally see a path ahead of him, one that wasn’t smeared with the blood of his past. Maybe he had risen so that he could see Rick again. Maybe everything would be different this time. Maybe, now that they knew how fickle life could be, maybe it would be ok this time.

Jem’s match started a fire in Kieren’s brain, the hope burning through all the evil and lighting his path.

He had to see Rick.

 *            *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Kieren saw the shift in Philip’s gaze and instinctively turned around. Standing before him was a man; strong, army buzz cut, angry lines scarring his face, lips parted in a dazed expression – it was Rick. The years and distance intervening them seemed suddenly immense, an impossible stretch of people, war, and fear. Still more moments passed as that stretch of wasteland shrivelled down to a few metres, merely a length of the room. _And_ _everything will be different this time_ , Kieren thought. Rick would know now the cost of hidden truths; he would take Kieren into his arms and apologise over and over, and so would Kieren, for expecting too much of him. The long-caged passion between them would ignite as their souls connect in understanding. The distance between was decimated as Rick held out his hand.

“Alright, mate?” he said.

Rick’s words, seemingly friendly to anyone but him, drenched the fire in Kieren’s chest. The glow of hope dissipated, as he remembered that hardly anything had changed; it was still Roarton, he was still Rick Macy, and he was still Kieren Walker, the impossibility of it all crashing down on his head.

But Rick was back. And Kieren knew that Rick wasn’t... he could still... an ember of hope remained.


	3. Chapter 3

Kieren opened the door to the bathroom and began his ritual.

Step one – glance at the floor, at the wall, fill his mind with mundane thoughts to avoid thinking about what he is.

Step two – take one last look at himself while he still appears almost right; burn it into his memory so that nothing could erase it, not even a glimpse of what’s underneath.

Step three – take the towel and protect himself; close the door to his cage and cover the truth.

Step four – pour the key to his cage onto a flannel.

Step five – clean away his cage, methodically, carefully, not missing an inch.

Step six – remove the contacts that shade his vision.

Kieren reached out, resting his hand on the corner of the mirror. He’s unlocked his cage, now all he has to do is take away the towel and see out. Would he see truth, liberation, redemption like Amy said? But he could remember his face from before; inhuman. What if he looked and his eyes were ice, his skin marble? He could not bear the thought that he could be worse than he remembered. He cowered back into his cage, letting society lock the door on him once more.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

“It’s who you are,” Simon murmured, “and running away won’t change that.”

Kieren met the ghostly eyes looking at him with such intention. He could feel Simon peeling back his layers. Yes, it was who he was but he didn’t want to be this ravaged shadow of a human. And as for a running away, he knew that that was true, but he could not admit that.

“I’m not running away,” Kieren retorted, “I’m gonna start a new life.” His mantra; it’ll be better, it’ll be different. He just couldn’t believe that it was possible to start a new life in this town of dead values and rotting people.

“You’ve already been given a new life,” Simon replied, “and you can live it here, don’t let anyone tell you any different.”

Hadn’t he lost his new life, when Rick had been killed? When he had heard Rick was back, suddenly his rising had made sense, his fate setting his path. When Amy said yesterday that everything happened for a reason, bitterness shot through him. Why the hell had Rick died, then? What kind of new life took away the one thing that might have made it bearable?

Yet Simon’s assurance resounded in Kieren’s chest, and he found that a glow of hope resided in him. He was right. Though he couldn’t see how right now, this was a second chance, a gift. Maybe something could be made of it.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Simon tried to look at this boy in front of him, but he couldn’t quite dare to. Kieren had come into his life, not entirely unexpectedly thanks to Amy’s nattering, and built a wall on its path. When he first met him he could see the self-loathing in Kieren’s eyes that he knew so well himself. He would be a tricky one, but Kieren would find the truth as liberating as he had, and would find joining him irresistible.

But then Kieren had stood in front of that gun. Not only was he protecting people he barely knew, but he was also making a stand. Simon saw that this boy didn’t want people to die, and he certainly didn’t want to have to put up with some of the shit the living tried, but he just wanted to get on. Simon had forgotten what it was like to see someone like that, who didn’t have a raging purpose, and didn’t really want one. He had spent so long trying to find his own, he had forgotten what it was like.

So Kieren had reminded him that maybe, just maybe, if he was more truthful than it was possible to be, he was aware, just in the peripheral understanding of his mind, he knew that really all he wanted was a cure. He didn’t want all this preaching and bible passages. But that was too much to admit to, because his preaching and bible passages and mission was all he had. So he decided to admit to himself that Kieren was hitting him hard in the heart.

“There’s what I believe,” his brain uselessly protesting at the truthfulness of these unexpected emotions, “and then there’s you.”

He didn’t want to convert Kieren, not like the others. He did want Kieren to be free, to understand that if there isn’t a cure, there could be this. For all the façade of god and bible, there was no denying the deliverance of this life. He just needed to reach Kieren. And the untempered, now acknowledged part of him knew that he would do anything.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

“Tell me what you want,” Simon said, “I’ll do anything I can to give it to you.”

Kieren faltered at this unadultared confession. But he was still wary; Simon had only just tried that creepy hand on the neck thing. This was just another conversion technique – a risky one considering the promised dedication, but he was just trying to turn Kieren into another one of his bloody followers.

“Because there’s what I believe, and then there’s you.”

Kieren stared at this man, brain stumbling over the words. Their eyes met and suddenly Kieren could see an unconditional truth. Simon really was serious, opening up more than he had ever done before.  The disciple, the preacher, was gone. Here was a new person, and Kieren could sense that this was no insignificant step; he was dedicating himself to Kieren.

Kieren’s world slowed as the shock rode through him. This man was, perhaps not changing, but warping himself for Kieren. It ignited a strange hope in him. Even Rick would not have done this for him, and yet Simon was still nearly a stranger. Simon had given so many something to believe in, and they both knew that Kieren could not believe in that. But perhaps what Simon didn’t know was that he was giving Kieren something else to believe in; Simon. Maybe Simon could lead him to his path. Maybe Simon could be the key.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Amy had believed in Simon.

When he had told her that she was special, that her fate was to be one of the first, she had believed in the truth that Simon could show her.

When he had held back Gary, protecting a boy he barely knew because of his unwavering believe in the Undead, she had believed in the strength that Simon could give her.

When he had spoken softly to the fearful Undead, listening to their stories and following his mission with a marble resolve, she had believed in the light that Simon burnt with.

When he had held her close, his voice of silk wrapping her in the warmth of care and affection, she had believed in the love that Simon had for her.

Amy had believed that fate had given her Simon, to show her the truth, to strengthen her resolve in this crueller world, to light her path and maybe even to love her.

But now she stopped as she saw Kieren leaning into a kiss, Simon’s hands tentatively reaching to Kieren’s neck.

Both of them, her beloved Kieren and Simon, together, was a punch in the gut, but at least she saw everything in a new light. Simon cared for her, she was still sure of that, but it explained why her advances went unanswered, why Simon looked at her with concern, even with love, but not much more.

She knew this shouldn’t change much; Simon was still a gift of fate, a disciple, and she was lucky enough to be with him, just not in that way, because it turned out that he, as well as Kieren, wasn’t like that.


	4. Chapter 4

It was here. Simon was ready to get his final purpose. He couldn’t contain his smile; he felt himself wriggling like a child at the thought that the Prophet, the first person ever to give him something to believe in, was proud of him. He stilled himself, concentrating on the distorted words from the image of death before him.

His purpose was to sacrifice the First Risen. He was perturbed that he would have to kill again, this time fully conscious, but he smiled and nodded accordingly as he conceded that it was for the “greater good”.

Julian left the room as Simon lightly held the packet in his hands; inside the knives were jostling for his attention.

This was his purpose. This was his fate. To kill the First Risen.

To kill Kieren.

He had to kill the boy who had thrown a stone into the cogs of his new life.

The world stilled. The sounds of the hotel met his ears but went no further. He stopped seeing. Oh the fucking irony he had to take away the very person who might have changed everything.

The sounds returned with a vengeance. The beeping the clunking the rumbling the humming all vied for his attention, assaulting his mind until a phantom pain shot through his head and memories forced him open with forceps of shame.

He remembered the candle of purpose John Weston had presented him, when he was told he could end the war. He remembered the beacon of purpose the Undead Prophet had presented him, when he was made a disciple and told to spread belief and freedom. And he remembered the radiance of Kieren.

Oh the fucking irony that for so long his life had been treading water but now he had two fates to chose from.

He remembered when he joined the ULA. He remembered their smiles, their welcoming phrases, their glow of truth. He remembered the elation at having a home. He remembered that he believed in the Undead Prophet. He remembered all the people he had given something to believe in. He remembered all the bible passages speaking the final truth. He remembered that he was the _redeemed._

How could he ignore all this? Kieren was the First Risen. The ULA had given him what he had needed. The Undead Prophet believed in him. He must kill the First Risen, for to make an end was to make a beginning. This was his purpose. He wasn’t taking away the person who might have changed everything; the First Risen would change everything.

 *            *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Simon listened as the bell repeatedly asserted itself on the air. He watched as Kieren clung to sanity. He looked down at the knife, still ringing with its purpose, with the promise of his fate.

His goddamn purpose. He had spent so long looking for it but now what he thought he had come for was only a shell, a husk of meaning.

Strong arms grabbed his neck and he saw the glint of a knife at his neck as Gary growled into his ear. This was easier, wasn’t it? Letting Kieren’s fate go to the hands of the quivering Pearl? But now that he was being held strong, now that Gary was creating the possibility that he would be able to do nothing...

Well, to hell with fate.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

“The point of the game is to keep on playing,” Amy grumbled.

And it was, wasn’t it? Her death had been so unfair; she had played by the rules and yet she had come out the loser. When fate had given her a second chance, she had thrown away the rulebook, ignored the referee and now she was going to play for just as long as she wanted. She wasn’t going to lose this time.

“Well yeah, maybe,” Philip mused, “but – but if we don’t finish it, it sort of becomes pointless, doesn’t it?”

Amy looked at Philip, at the innocent simplicity in his face. The truth dawned on her, but she did not rage against this light.

She had spent too long worrying about and believing in her fate. So she was turning rabid, that was her lot in life. Had she really believed that she would live forever, darting away from death’s advances, free from the rules of life?

She couldn’t and wouldn’t be rabid, that was certain. Not that life again, never. So it must be death. She would have to die, and there was no point raging against it. After all, she had lived, she had loved, been loved; she had been given a second chance, and now her fun was over.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Amy scrawled _Kieren Walker_ on the envelope, keenly aware of its seal. She hoped she had written out the details clearly enough. When she had left last time, she had gone out screaming, wanting everyone to join her in her rage. But this time, she just wanted everyone to carry on living for her.

As noises invaded her tent, the fear of a rabid only strengthened her resolve; she could not inflict that upon anyone again. But it was only Philip, smiling innocently. She was happy he was there, that it was Philip. She might have loved him, eventually. But there was no point mulling over what could have been.

It was difficult, fighting him. Partly because she wished he could be right. But she had all the signs, this was her fate, it was

“- a fate worse than death”.

Philip finally conceded, if not fully understood. Guilt shot through her at forcing him to this.

The minutes passed. She knew it was coming and she knew there was no choice, yet still she wanted to stay just a little longer, even it was mere seconds, the mere breath before the wave.

Amy felt herself fighting her body. She was shaking. This was it. She screamed at Philip; it had to be now.

“Wait!”

The skin of her face had pinpoints of pressure, almost impalpable, the fine hairs on her face shifting as the pinpoints traced their way down, clinging to her skin, drawing in the cold of the wind.

“My face – my face is wet,” Amy breathed, “my face is wet... my face is wet!”

Amy barely dared move in fear of losing the sensation. She focused her whole mind on this feeling that she had never been able to conjure through memory, but was never forgotten; the pinch of the cold as the wind pierced the water, the gentle tickle as the drops found their paths.

“Do you still want me to –“

“No of course not, I’m feeling again!” Amy gasped.

So she wasn’t turning rabid; she wasn’t destined to a haunting, empty life. The relief pulsed through her so that she almost felt she was coming back to life. Her second chance had been extended. She didn’t understand this, she couldn’t, but maybe, just maybe fate had something a little more set in store for her.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

It was a sensation that Amy had forgotten to miss. The strike of her hair against her face and the insistent stroke of the wind on her skin had been exhilarating, but now already it was fading into banality; standard and expected. So when Amy’s heart started to beat, she almost didn’t notice, as it was associated with everything else ordinary.

But then she felt the first gentle, hesitant pulses pushing from her chest to the tips of her limbs; resuming the song that had been paused for so long. Philip’s gentle hands spread warmth through her chest, assuring her of the life beneath his hand. She looked up into his eyes; she wasn’t going crazy, she was coming back to life and her heart was beating again. Her heart responded in kind at the excitement she felt, dancing in its vitality.

“Amy Dyer?” Amy turned at the raised voice, to be faced with the assured and defiant face of Maxine Martin, “You are the first and the last”.

Amy’s breath caught at the sight of the knife, but before her nerves could respond a searing heat was spreading from a gash of fire in her chest. The exultation of feeling again scorned her as the pain burned her brain to emptiness. She had no time to drag thoughts from the recess of her brain before the stabs came, again and again, the pain multiplying until her brain was white.

Her vision faded, dimly aware of Philip pushing Maxine away. The vitality of her heart seeped into the air as her legs buckled, the ground jarring up against her legs.

Her name from Philip, over and over. The dirty green of the ground being replaced with the kindly grey of the sky. Strong harms holding her. The erratic jolt of Philip’s steps. Her heart trying to keep in time. Her eyes slid shut, the pain dominating her mind. She didn’t have time to think that it was unfair.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

“Not going away, I hope?”

Simon’s eyes met Kieren’s. Kieren didn’t want to go; he was happy here. And Simon couldn’t leave him, not now, not after everything. Kieren gave him everything he needed.

Because when he had believed in the Undead Prophet he had believed in universal virtues; liberation, protection, redemption – all too smooth and wide for a single hand to grab. He needed something more tangible to believe in, for he could never believe in vast concepts like God or fate.

He didn’t want to be cured anymore, because if Kieren was what he got for his second life, then there was nothing to be cured. Kieren had not built a wall on his path; he had built him a new path.

“No, no I’m staying put.”

He could not put into normal words what he believed in. He couldn’t explain why or what it was. But he could name it. He believed in Kieren.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

Kieren looked at the scrawled words in front of him, his hand shaking in response to the surrealism of how Amy’s letter immortally trapped the energy and life within her. Amy’s spoken words rang through his mind. _Everything happens for a reason._ What was the bloody reason for this? A human so... there were simply no words that Kieren could find for Amy. She was a bright light that had shone through the darkness of Kieren’s life, to put it in the most cheesy and ineffective way possible.

But there was absolutely no point in him hanging on to the past, on to the what-could-have-been. It had never done anything good for him before. He stood, resigning himself to his decision. He hovered in the doorway of his cage. He stepped out, lifting his eyes and facing the mirror. His eyes caught themselves; they were not cold and dead, they were his new eyes, full of an inscrutable life. This was who he was. Amy had known that, but it had taken... He lifted his head and he stared resolutely at his reflection. His new life bristled in front of him. He couldn’t believe in fate, or god. But this was ok. He could believe in what was right in front of him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're here reading this I love you to pieces already. I've only just started writing really so I would love some feedback; the more critical the better! Thank you :) x


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